


A Taste of the Cliche

by Newtavore



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Amporafamily, Dysfunctional Family, Family Fluff, Gen, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-05-07 07:53:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5448998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtavore/pseuds/Newtavore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Eridan Ampora, and you are desperately trying to convince yourself your hands are shaking from cold, not fear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Be Deleted, Honestly.

**Author's Note:**

> ill probably delete this later. chapter one of ??? ??

Your name is Eridan Ampora, and you are desperately trying to convince yourself your hands are shaking from cold, not fear.

 

It's not much of a stretch; though you _are_ terrified, you're also frozen half to death, soaked to the bone and shivering as rain plasters your hair and clothes to your thin frame. Your mother had thrown you out of her car with only a duffel bag clutched in your small hands, straight into the icy maelstrom without so much as a by-your-leave, and now you’re wet and cold and definitely miserable, trembling as you stare out into the empty neighborhood.

 

You'd turned to watch the car speed down the street but she hadn't showed any sign of stopping or slowing down. You hope she'd remembered to inform the inhabitants of the house in front of you that you'd be coming- and _staying-_ for an undetermined amount of time; that seems like the kind of thing she’d forget.

 

The house in question is supposedly the home of your father and half brother, if she'd even dropped you off at the right place. It's no more familiar to you than the rest of the comfy, squat little houses lining either side of the street; you'd call yourself estranged at best and disowned at worst, and to be honest you don't even know if your father remembers he has another kid, much less wants the kid to live with him, so it's not like you've visited recently. It's not like you remember anything about them either though; you haven't seen them since you were four and the only things you know about either of them are the things your mother told you- and what she’d told you definitely isn’t doing much to alleviate the fear flashing and flaring through you like the lightning dancing across the sky.

 

Because you can't deny that you're scared no matter how much you want to, not with the way your hands shake, the way your breath comes in short gasps, the way your knees tremble and threaten to buckle. You're scared, but you can't stay out here forever. You can't avoid this; you just have to man up and deal with it, swallow your fear and _just fucking_ \--

 

It takes far too long, but you finally gather enough of your tattered, scarce courage to knock quietly on the violet door.

 

"Just a minute!"

 

The yell is loud, even through the thick wood, and you scramble at least three cautious steps back before the door flies open and nearly clips your nose. There's a teenager standing in the doorway, squinting in the half light; he has pale, wavy hair like your own slicked back out of his face, freckles dusting his tanned skin, and he blinks at you with eyes that share the same strange blue-violet color as yours. Even without knowing of your relation to him, the resemblance would have been painfully obvious; it makes some tension drop from your shoulders, because if he's here then at least this isn't the wrong fucking house. Three cheers to minor victories, and all that.

 

You stare at each other for almost a minute before he says, tentatively, "Eridan?"

 

You only recognize the bits of him you see in the mirror every morning, but he clearly recognizes you. You aren’t sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

 

"…Cronus, right?" you say, fingers twitching around the strap of your bag. He nods, radiant smile curling over his features in a way you've never seen replicated on your own face, and even with all the things you'd forced yourself to prepare for you were not expecting him to throw his arms around you and pull you into the biggest hug you've ever received in your life. You have no clue how to react, no idea what's acceptable in this situation- what do you do when a stranger hugs you? What are the proper procedures?

 

You just hold yourself stiff and still and try not to do anything offensive because if you'd learned one lesson in your short, miserable existence it's that keeping the people around you happy means your life remains unthreatened and easy.

 

Thankfully ( _fortunately, unfortunately, no wait come back-_ ) Cronus pulls away after only a few seconds, holding you at arm's length.

 

"Eridan! I haven't seen you since you were tiny, though not much seems to have changed in that department, has it?"

 

He smiles wide, one corner of his mouth quirked up further than the other, more of a smirk than anything else. His sharp teeth gleam a bit in the dim porchlight.

 

He's got a bruise on his forehead, just the right size and shape to have been made by a fist.

 

"Fuck, li'l man, come inside, it's freezing and you're soaked to the bone-" he says, dragging you into the house, and it takes all your strength and self control not to dig your heels in as he pulls you over the threshold by the wrist. It's definitely warmer, but you feel awkward and out of place, dripping all over nice marble tile.

 

You hate making messes. You hate making messes more than just about anything else.

 

"Dad! Dad, you'll never guess who showed up on the doorstep!"

 

Anything else but yelling, that is.

 

"Cronus, I told you, shut your goddamn yap indoors for god's sake, this is a house not a football stadium…"

 

Orpheus Ampora had been an intimidating man in the few photos you'd caught glimpses of during your childhood, and he has not grown less so with time. He bears striking resemblance to you and Cronus, though he's much taller and broader than both of you combined and his face is bisected by two long, knotted scars as thick around as your fingers. You remember hearing your mother tell you story after story about those scars, the circumstances around them changing depending on how much wine had been left in her glass and how long each successive boyfriend had lasted; the circumstances had never been good.

 

“…Eridan?"

 

You can't stop yourself from taking a small, reflexive step behind Cronus, but it doesn't stop the man from loping over and scooping you into an impossibly tight hug even more awkward than the one Cronus had forced on you because this man is much larger and much more terrifying than thin, lanky Cronus could ever hope to be. You're kind of worried he'll bite your head off if you move the wrong way.

 

"Eridan, I haven't seen you in years!"

 

To your shock, you can feel the man's shoulders shake with emotion, just the once. His grip tightens until it's barely under the threshold of uncomfortable, and you're conflicted; you want to pull away, but it's… it's really nice at the same time, nicer than anything you've ever felt, nicer even than hugs from Feferi, nicer still than a cold shoulder grip or a snide dismissal from Mother. You can't decide what to do and the last thing you want is to irritate him while he’s got you wrapped up in his huge, burly arms, so you just kind of stay limp and unresisting because that’s _safe_ and honestly you don’t really want to pull away anyways.

 

"What in god's name are you doing here?" he says, holding you at arm's length, and he looks at you simultaneously like he's the happiest man on earth and like he's never going to see you after this moment, "Not to sound unwelcomin' or anythin', but how are you here? I thought your mother would never let me see you again!"

 

“I apologize if this is an inconvenience,” you murmur, stuttering over your v’s and w’s and doing your best not to sound like a _complete_ idiot, tone stilted and formal, “I... guess I figured Mom called you- I must have been wrong. I’m- I'm meant to be staying here for the- unforeseeable future, sir.”

 

There's a hint of controlled rage shadowing Orpheus's face, and his scars twist as his mouth turns down in a frown; you thought he couldn't get any more intimidating and you were wrong, _so so wrong_ because now he looks subtly murderous and you desperately hope that anger isn't directed at you and your intrusion. You take a step away without even thinking and almost bump into Cronus, who had walked up behind you with a towel in his hands and is now inadvertently blocking your escape route, your back to a figurative wall.

 

“I'm sure other arrangements can be made if it's too much trouble,” you stutter, nearly tripping over yourself as you try to offer him a way out of this mess, "I'm sorry she didn't bother to call or write or anything- if I could borrow a phone, I'm sure I can find somewhere else to stay-”

 

You don’t have anywhere else to stay. There’s no one you can call, but he doesn’t need to know that; the last thing you want to do is guilt trip a stranger into letting you stay in his home, where he’s made a perfectly happy family without you and your inconsiderate mother.

 

“None of that now, you're fine right here," Orpheus interrupts, shaking his head, and one of his big hands lands back on your shoulder, a warm, solid mass of flesh and strength, "I've been lookin' for an excuse to steal you away from your mother, boy, I'd just hoped she had enough of a heart to actually call and let us know you were comin'. Also, did she drop you off in the rain? You're soakin' wet!”

 

You have no clue how to react, to him, to Cronus, to any of this. You're wet and cold and confused because it seems like they actually want you here, and they're so… they're so fucking _affectionate_ , so _touchy_ , and you don't know what to _do_. You have no idea what the correct responses are, and you hate not knowing the answers. You hate not knowing how to react.

 

Mother is not affectionate. Mother is not touchy; the woman could hardly spare the time of day for you, much less put her perfectly manicured hands on your body for anything other than steering you somewhere or pushing you out of her way. The only time you even interact with her is when she’s drunk and feeling overemotional, or vindictive, and those times were dedicated to horror stories about your father and your half brother, not contact and affection.

 

You're stiff and shaking a bit, and you grow even more tense when Orpheus reaches around you, wrapping a towel around your shoulders and gesturing to your sopping bag.

 

"Your clothes look worse for wear too, boy. Cronus, go see if you got anythin’ that'll fit him, won't you?"

 

He rubs his hands up and down your arms, frowning at the chill, and pulls the warm fabric around you a bit tighter. You let your bag slip to the floor and wince at the disgusting squelch it makes as it lands at your feet.

 

"We'll get you some warm clothes, the bathroom is right over there. Take a hot shower, warm up a little bit. We'll dump your things in the dryer, they should be done by tomorrow mornin’ at the latest, I expect."

 

He releases you after one last pat on the shoulder and gives you a light push towards the bathroom. There's soap lining the shelving of the shower and extra towels under the sink, and the water is hot and warms you up quickly. You spend more time than you probably should have just hiding in the shower with the water turned up hot enough to burn, but your forearm and shoulder are aching, you're freezing, and the last thing you want is to get sick so you talk yourself into feeling less guilty for using up more than your fair share of hot water.

 

There are clothes outside the door and while they're three sizes too big and the sweatpants hang off your hips even with the drawstring pulled tight, they're warm and smell comfortingly of something half remembered. You slink out of the bathroom, wet clothes in hand, and nearly run into Cronus as he careens around the corner.

 

"Oh! Hey, I thought you might'a drowned in there," he says, grinning wide, "I could go put those in the dryer, if you want?"

 

He has one hand held out and you're kind of hesitant about just dumping your soaked clothes in his arms, but you have no clue where the dryer would be and you don't have much of a choice. They're also so saturated you doubt they'll dry quickly on your own so you just suck it up and hand them over, wincing as they drip on the floor.

 

"Um, thanks," you murmur, keeping your eyes down, and Cronus smiles, ruffles your wet, messy hair, and sweeps out of the doorway leading to the kitchen. You stand there, _fucking clueless_ once again, dumbstruck and idiotic, before you steel yourself and walk forward because _where else can you go?_ It's either forward or back, and you sincerely doubt hiding out in the bathroom for however long you're stuck here is going to be an acceptable mode of operation. 

 

Orpheus is there, bent over a stove and prodding something with a wooden spoon, and though he looks unhappy with it, it smells… really, really good, actually.

 

"You warmed up?"

 

His gaze is intense when it's focused all on you and you have to resist the urge to hide in the overlarge hoodie Cronus had lent you; you nod and he smiles in response.

"Good. The soup'll be done soon, and that'll get you even warmer and maybe keep you from catchin’ ill. Go on, sit down, make yourself at home."

 

The grin lights up his face and though it makes his scars twist, he seems happy, less terrifying and aggressive than he did before.

 

You sit as ordered and watch, quiet, as he finishes up his cooking.

 

He looks much more relaxed than he did earlier, the hidden rage gone from his features and his movements loose and easy. His hair, much longer than yours or Cronus's and twisted into a rough braid, swings lightly with every motion; you're not sure if it's the sudden warmth or your lack of regular sleep that has you hypnotized by the gentle movement, but no matter the cause, it lulls you into a contemplative state, glazed eyes half-focused on Orpheus Ampora's intimidating stature. Not counting the scars that streak across his forehead and cut thick swathes through his eyebrow, eye, and cheek, he looks like _you,_ is the funny part. Like you, but a you that is more powerful and dangerous than you had ever been and will ever hope to be.

 

And yet you find it hard to be as afraid of him as you think you should be. You know things about this man, terrifying things, awful stories your mother told you in the dark of night before you went to bed, but now, here? Actually seated in front of him while he flutters around the stove like an angry moth? Your fear is hard to hold onto. You just don't feel _scared_. You're always sort of wary, sort of nervous, keeping a tight grasp on tension and alertness because those things keep you in one piece, keep you ready to mold yourself into whatever she or her newest conquest wants you to be, but you don't actually feel the urge to kowtow and obey while around him. You feel almost comfortable, like you could actually belong here.

 

You think you’re more terrified of that than of anything else he could do to you.

 

“Hope you like chicken noodle,” Orpheus says, placing a spoon and a bowl in front of you, near full to the brim with steaming soup, “It’s all we had. We probably need to go grocery shoppin’, can’t remember when we last did that… “

 

He sits across from you and leans his elbows on the table, his own bowl pushed off to the side, chin resting on his fist.

 

“I tried callin’ your mother while you were in the shower, she refused to pick up."

 

You shovel a spoonful of soup in your mouth because if there is anything universal you know about adults, is that they hate it when kids talk with their mouths full. It’s soup and not something solid though, so you can’t chew on it for six hours straight; you have to swallow it eventually, and you’d rather it not go cold, so you have to respond sooner than you’d like.

 

“She tends to do that, sir.”

 

Even though your first taste was hasty and made more out of necessity than desire, the soup is excellent, the best thing you’ve ever tasted really, and the warmth of it slides down your throat and curls in your stomach, slowing your almost uncontrollable shivers.

 

“You mentioned needin’ to stay here- why? Not that I mind in the slightest, but I’d like to know why my ex-wife decided it’d be a good idea to drag you here in the middle of one’a the biggest storms since 1932.”

 

You take a bit of time to eat some more, suddenly acutely aware of how starving you actually are. He’s patient though, sipping at his own meal, and he seems very careful not to stare at you for long periods of time- a consideration that makes something besides the soup curl warm and friendly in your stomach, in your chest. The feeling of other people’s eyes burning into you is uncomfortable and makes you uneasy, and he’s got one of the most intense gazes ever; you don’t know what it is about him that makes him so damn intimidating but he _is_ , his stare most of all.

 

“She’s, uh- she has a new boyfriend, sir,” you murmur, biting your lip, unsure how he’ll take it, “She- needs to spend some time with him, or, wants to anyways. Having a kid along is- well, it's not exactly what she had in mind for their vacation. The length of time wasn’t exactly clarified, but I swear, if I’m any trouble at all I can find somewhere to go-”

 

He raises a hand and your babbling cuts off at once, your tongue almost getting caught up in your teeth with how fast you fall silent.

 

“Hush, it’s fine. It’s not a problem, not at all,” he interrupts, and you’re glad because your stuttering just gets worse when you're nervous and, to be honest, you have no fucking clue what you would do if he ended up calling your bluff _because there is no where else_ , “You’re welcome here for as long as you need to stay, an' longer besides. As long as you want, you have a home here, even after she returns.”

 

The warmth in your chest flares to an ache and it just sounds too good to be true in the kind of way that means the world is out to get you again. They don’t know you- the last time they’d seen you was when you were four, too young to be much of anything, too young to truly _know_ , and now he’s offering you a way out? A place to live, a _home_ even, for as long as you want to stay?

 

You can’t accept that. You can’t.

 

It will only be a matter of time before that’s rescinded, you’re positive. There had to be a reason why your mother and all of her lovers treated you the way they did, _something_ about you must be annoying enough, hateable enough to merit the way they shunned and disliked you, and it would only be a matter of time before your father and half brother discover it too.

 

You can’t allow yourself to feel comfortable here, as much as you so desperately want to.

 

The silence is interrupted by Cronus banging around, storming across the room with a full bowl in his own hands and clattering into the seat beside you. You wonder if he’s always so loud, or if this is a special occasion. You’re not sure your poor nerves can take it if he is.

 

“Alright chief, I got everythin’ tossed in the dryer, set an extra long cycle, it should all be done by mornin’ at the latest. Hopefully you don’t got anythin’ too fancy in there, or it might get wrecked.”

 

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” you say, staring into your bowl instead of looking him in the face, because the bruise on his head is in stark, startling contrast against the paleness of his skin, and upon closer inspection, he too has a set of wavy scars on his face, though his are much smaller and set on the side of his forehead.

 

Though you spend most of your time staring at Cronus, at Orpheus, your hand continues to move on automatic, and before you realize it, your bowl is empty. You’re not entirely sure when that became reality, but there is no more soup in the bowl and you are still slightly hungry…

 

“Do you want more?”

 

Orpheus’s voice startles you, for some reason, despite the fact that Cronus has been prattling on since he’d returned to the kitchen.

 

You want more, but at the same time you’re unwilling to ask for it, and you actually think that with your nerves, you’d probably just make yourself sick, so you shake your head.

 

“No thank you.”

 

Orpheus nods and smiles at you, teeth gleaming in the kitchen lights, and you’re suddenly reminded of a shark.

 

“It’s getting late, kids,” he says, standing with a creak of limbs, “Time for bed. I’ll show you the spare bedroom, Eridan, and you can set your stuff up in there. Tomorrow’s Saturday, but I have a meeting in the morning. I should be back by noon, though.”

 

You stumble to your feet, clumsy with nerves and exhaustion, and cart your bowl over to the sink, but Cronus snatches it out of your hands before you can wash it.

 

“Hey, I got it, Eri, you look real tired. Go get some sleep, alright?”

 

You _are_ tired; you are bone-weary and cold and emotionally drained, so you stare at the fingers wrapped around your dirty dish for probably much longer than is socially acceptable before you’re gently pushed out of the kitchen, one of Orpheus’s massive hands covering pretty much your entire shoulder.  

 

“This way, boy,” he prompts, and you allow him to lead you to the spare room. It’s a nice room; not as grand as the one you’d existed in at your mother’s house, but comfier, cozier. It’s a place you think you might actually be able to feel safe in, and that right there is sending your head spinning because it’s a feeling you never thought you’d have until you were old and grown and living by yourself.

 

“Get some rest,” Orpheus says, patting you on the shoulder and guiding you into the room, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

The door clicks shut behind you, but it doesn’t lock. In fact, the lock is on the inside, not the outside, and, almost giddily, you flip it shut, keeping anyone else from entering the room without a key or your permission.

 

You decide, after staring at a door you assume is an attached bathroom for almost three minutes straight, to forgo brushing your teeth for one night and just melt into the bed, sighing as you relax into the sinfully soft mattress. Your shoulder and forearm twinge in pain, but you ignore them in favor of pulling the comforter up around you and curling up into tight a ball as possible, nestled in the middle of a fairly large collection of pillows and bunched up sheets.

 

You’re not sure how it’s possible for you to already feel so safe here, even if it’s just in this room. Maybe it’s the lock on the door, for once located on the inside, but… it’s also them. You don’t really feel threatened by them and it’s the strangest thing ever, because they’re both taller than you, stronger than you; they could do a lot of damage if they set their minds to it, but...

 

You fall asleep before even finishing the thought.


	2. short interludey bit

Your name is Orpheus Ampora, and you… you don’t know what to think.

 

You’re in a rather wrathful mood at the moment, but you’re careful not to make a show of it; no one in this house deserves your anger, and you are not in the habit of lashing out at those who don’t deserve it. At the same time, you are furious, and for good reason- that horrid wretch of a woman, the one you're shocked you even considered dating, much less marrying, just dumped your son off in the middle of the worst rainstorm of the year with hardly anything to his name, without calling or anything.

 

It was so completely, hideously irresponsible that you want to hit something, but the only things to hit in this house and your kids and your walls and you’d probably kill yourself before hitting your kids. The dishes you’re cleaning aren’t options either- in fact, it’s a great test of self control on your part not to slam them around, but you think you manage fairly well.

 

“…Dad?”

 

Cronus is leaning against the kitchen doorway, deceptively calm, but you can see telltale signs of worry in him, in the way his eyes can’t seem to stay in one place, or the way his fingers tap out piano scales on his thighs, unable to stay still.

 

“Dad… somethin’s up with Eridan, isn’t it.”

 

You take a deep breath and let it out through your teeth, setting the half cleaned pot down on the counter before you decide to throw it.

 

It was obvious that Eridan… Eridan wasn’t very well treated by his mother. You had worried for his safety every fucking day since you’d been banned from his life, and it was horrifying, sickening to see that your concerns were not unfounded.

 

Your child, your poor child, he is so small, smaller than you or Cronus had ever been at that age, and while the pale skin is hereditary, the sickly pallor is not. Getting doused by ice cold rain in the middle of November probably contributed, but you have a feeling that he’s just not a very healthy child, in general.

 

Adding to that the way he’d stiffened when faced with physical contact, like he had no clue how to respond…

 

“I think so,” is all you end up saying, biting your lip to keep the curses in, and fuck, you want to hit something and scream. Maybe cry a bit.

 

Cronus creeps up to you and you wrap your arms around his shoulders, holding him close, and god, you are so, so glad that he hasn’t gone through the ‘I’m too cool for affection’ phase that most teenagers go through. Instead of pulling away, he leans in even further, and you bury your face in his hair and sigh.

 

“You know I love you, right?” you say, and he does this awkward little half nod and shuffles as close as he can get and says, “Love you too” in the ridiculous quasi-accent he picked up from you. You pull away after a minute or two and ruffle his slicked back hair, laughing as he grumbles at you for it and tries to fix the mess.

 

“I’m going to finish up in here,” you say, feeling significantly less homicidal towards the cutlery now that you’ve had a chance to calm down, “Go on, get. I’ve got a meetin’ tomorrow, remember, and I’m gonna need you to watch out for Eridan.”

 

He nods, grins at you, and slouches off to his room in the particularly boneless way only a teenager can, and you shake your head before turning back to the pot you’d been cleaning.

 

You need to call Kalkai.

 

Your friend is an expert in everything you are not, child-rearing and emotional problems included, and if not for him you probably would have totally fucked up everything you could have possibly fucked up with Cronus. He most definitely will know how to deal with this better than you, by far.

 

Granted, you should probably wait until tomorrow to chat him up, considering the time; while you know he and his children are all chronic insomniacs and 11pm isn’t really considered late for them, it would be best to leave them undisturbed, just in case sleep had somehow managed to catch hold of them.

 

You finish scrubbing your pot and up it away, shaking your head.

 

This situation? It sucks. You finally get both of your children under the same roof and within hugging distance, and your youngest is… well, he’s afraid of you. It makes your stomach churn, watching him react like you’ll hit him for any infraction, any insignificant reason. It makes you want to pull him close and hold him tight, but you don’t think he’d take to that very well, if his reaction to your earlier hug is any indication.

 

You shut off the water and dry your hands, glancing down the hall. The door to Eridan’s room is shut tight, and you have no doubt the lock installed is drawn shut, keeping anyone from entering. You were going to look in on him before you headed off to bed yourself, but not if he’d locked you out. Instead, you clean up the rest of the mess you’d made, then trudge off to your own room, promising you’d get done with your meetings and come home as soon as possible tomorrow.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

You wake up slowly. 

 

Doing so is a luxury you’ve only experienced a few times in the past, too busy spending most of your early mornings doing schoolwork or lessons to sleep in or waste time. The sun shines through thin blinds, lighting up the room in a manner that is not entirely unpleasant, the bed is just as soft as you’d thought it was last night, and the comforter, now warmed with your body heat, is wrapped around you like a cocoon; it’s amazing.  You can barely convince yourself to roll over and check the clock, but when you do, 9:45 quietly blinks at you, and god, it’s the latest you’ve slept in  _ months _ .

 

You yawn and spend another ten minutes in bed just snuggling with the blankets before you begin making your slow, slow way to the bathroom. You don’t feel like actually standing or, god forbid, getting out of your sheet cocoon, so you just slide out of bed onto the floor without bothering to untangle yourself because hey, the carpet’s pretty comfy too and any movement at all is still progress. 

 

Once you actually arrive though, the time to shuck off your shell of warmth has come, so with all the reluctance in the world you pry yourself from your blanket bundle and dive into the shower, feeling all around better than you have in a long time. The pounding water works out all the soreness in your shoulder, back, and forearm, though it doesn’t do much for the livid bruising, and when you emerge from the hot water, you do so clean and relaxed… and without a second set of clothes. 

 

Shit.    
  


You’re left with no choice but to throw on the clothes you borrowed last night, and, after a long, long time hovering in front of the door to the hall, you decide you have to leave, if only to find the laundry room. You want clean clothes to wear more than you want to avoid interacting with anyone else in the house, because you feel sort of uncomfortably exposed without a heavy layer of armor in the form of clothing and hair gel, and only one of those things is within your grasp at the moment. 

 

So after steeling yourself, you click open the lock and push open the door, irrationally positive that someone is going to be standing right outside it. Of course, there’s no one there. The hall is empty and all the doors lining it are shut, which leaves you with another problem. 

 

Where the fuck is the laundry room?

 

You know Cronus had walked in this direction to dump your wet clothes in the dryer, so it has to be behind one of these doors, but if you remember correctly then the private rooms of the house’s other residents are also in this hall. What if you picked the wrong door? What if you walked into one of their rooms by accident? You never go into someone else’s room, ever, especially not an adult’s room and especially not if that adult has any power over you. It's a Rule.

 

You don’t really have a choice though. You could find Cronus and ask, but that would be putting yourself in a vulnerable position that you’d rather avoid, after only knowing him for about an hour. 

 

You creep across the hall, to the door contra to yours, and knock quietly. No response, not even a noise, you should know, you have your ear pressed against the door just in case. You push the door open, and almost slam it shut again when you get a five second glimpse of a bed with rucked up sheets half strewn across the floor. 

 

Ok, ok, that was a bedroom. Ok, avoid, you’d best avoid that room, avoid it a lot. 

 

You’re shaking, fuck, you’re so pathetic but you have far too much adrenaline for it being so early in the morning, and you can’t stop your jittering. 

 

The door adjacent to yours gets the same treatment, and, once again, there’s no response, so you take a deep breath and push it open. Another bed, this one with a leather jacket draped across the headboard, and you hurriedly shut the door again because  _ you need to stay out of people’s bedrooms _ . Just your luck, you’d pick wrong two out of three. 

 

There’s one more door left, and you’re sort of wary about it because, as mentioned, your luck is shit, and it would be just your luck for that room to be some sort of extra dimensional portal to hell, just waiting to suck you up. 

 

You, of course, decide to proceed with less caution than you’d approached the other two doors with because now you’re just strung out and desperately wanting clothes that actually fit. 

 

And of course, the room is not the laundry room or an extra dimensional portal to hell, but a study that Cronus is currently sitting in, fucking around with a laptop. Time to abort mission, maybe he didn’t notice you, maybe you can still creep away-

 

“‘Ey, Eri, wasn’t expecting you to be up so early.”

 

He clicks a few buttons then looks up at you, grinning crookedly, and in the sunlight streaming through the window the dark bruise on his face looks viciously prominent. The sight of it makes you trip over your words and you flail a bit, hands fluttering uselessly. 

 

“Sorry, I- sorry, w-was just lookin’ for-“

 

“Your clothes, right?” he interrupts, standing, the desk chair screeching a bit across wood flooring, “Here, I’ll show you where the laundry room is. I pro'lly should’a done that last night… oops.”

 

His long legs eat up the distance between you in two steps, and he claps a hand over your shoulder, the bad one. You try not to flinch, but you think you fail. You’re just hoping he’s not observant enough to notice. 

 

“K, so, that was the study,” he says, pointing the the room you’d just left, “Room across from yours is Dad’s, room to the left is mine. The laundry room…"

 

You are propelled into the bend of the hallway, halfway around the corner, to a narrow door you hadn’t noticed the day before. Cronus opens it and beckons you down a small flight of stairs, bracing you when you stumble a bit. 

 

“Easy there, stairs are steep. Laundry’s here, in the basement. Your clothes are dry, thankfully- here just dump ’em in this, it’ll make ’em easier to cart up to your room.”

 

He helps you shovel your newly dried clothing into a basket and carries it back up the stairs for you, despite your pathetic protests. To be honest, with the way your arm is aching, you aren’t really sure you  _ could _ have carried the heavy thing up the stairs, but protesting makes you feel better about allowing people to do things for you, so… 

 

“Get dressed and come to the kitchen, I’ll make us breakfast or somethin’. Anythin’ you don’t like? Any allergies?”

 

You’re not really allergic to anything food related, so you shake your head, and he ruffles your hair and walks down the hall, presumably to the kitchen. You quickly drag the basket of clothes to your room and throw on something that fits, stumbling into the bathroom to brush your teeth and do something about your tangled mess of a hairdo. 

 

You don’t have anything to style it with- you hadn’t been able to pack much before you were dragged out of the house by your mother’s armed goddamn bodyguard of a boyfriend, but you figure you can at least brush it. 

 

Or, you thought you could at least brush it. Turns out, brushing your hair one handed is actually pretty difficult, and the brush ends up getting stuck in the wavy mass of tangles that typically makes up your infuriating curly disaster. It takes almost ten minutes and a rather painful maneuver with both hands to extricate the thing from your hair, and you hadn’t even managed to make a dent in the blonde mess. After another minute or two just staring at the brush, contemplating, you decide to just give up, and make your way to the kitchen. 

 

Cronus is actually cooking, which surprises you for some reason. Neither your father or half brother looked like they’d be decent cooks, but he seems to be doing pretty well if the pile of fluffy brown pancakes is anything to go by. Nothing’s on fire anyways, which is more than you can say for your mother and her last boyfriend. 

 

“We got eggs, toast, and pancakes,” he says, tilting his head back to stare at you upside down, “Anythin’ you want special?”

 

“No, anythin’s fine,” you mumble, fiddling with the frayed ends of your scarf, the one article of clothing you refuse to go without, even if it is entirely pointless indoors. 

 

It’s ugly and patched with three different colours of thread and you’re pretty sure it’s older than you, but you love the stupid thing and it’s become something of a comfort object, from the first blue stripe to the stupid, lopsided bee embroidered on the bottom corner. 

 

“A little bit’a everythin’, then,” he says with a grin, plopping a full plate down in front of you and settling himself on the opposite side of the table.

 

“So, dad’s run of to work, which is a pretty rare occurrence, but it means we got the house to ourselves.”

 

You can’t help but stare at him, because in the fluorescent light of the kitchen, his face looks even worse, and his nose is slightly crooked. You wonder how many times it’s been broken, to look like that.

 

“Anythin’ you wanna do? I mean, we gotta TV, some games, not much, but enough. We could go walk around outside an’ I could show you a bitta the town, if you wanted… “

 

You shrug and stare at your food, poking the pancakes you’d wasted time cutting into itty bitty pieces. Your stomach is twisting itself in knots, and you aren’t really all that hungry, especially not for heavy stuff, and your entire plate is covered in greasy eggs and syrup doused pancakes and it’s just… unappetizing, for all how delicious it looks. 

 

“‘Ey, Eridan? Are you alright?”

 

You have to weigh your options carefully here, because you desperately want to ask him what happened to his face but at the same time, you don’t want to get him in trouble.

 

Sometimes, when your mother brought home some distinguished older gentleman, he’d have his own kids, and you’d get together and tell each other all the tips and tricks to avoid attention and punishment. It’s necessary, knowing what to do and what not to do, knowing the rules, because no one else will tell you the rules until you’ve broken them and that just ends badly for everyone involved.  None of them had been outright  _ abused _ though, and neither had you, but… that bruise looks nasty, really nasty, and you’re kind of scared out of your mind because Orpheus looks big enough to _squash you like a bug_. You’re not sure if the Rules are different, or if you can’t talk to him or he can’t talk to you, or what, because the only experience you have with actual physical punishment, the guy had told you that if you told anyone, well.

 

It wasn’t something you wanted to risk. 

 

Your hands are shaking so much you accidentally drop your fork, and the clatter of metal on ceramic is egregiously loud in the quiet of the kitchen. 

 

“Eridan?”

  
“I’m… I’m good, I’m fine,” you say, tripping over your words because you are decidedly not fine, but fuck, what else are you going to say? You scramble to pick up your utensil, but you’re not used to using your right hand for everything and, in an attempt not to knock your plate off the table, you knock a glass of water to the floor, the cup shattering with a surprisingly quiet tinkle.

You just broke a cup, and that's definitely against the Rules.


	4. Ohhhhh shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> happy 4-fuckin-13
> 
> tw: mentions of possible abuse

There's glass all over the floor now. Glass from the cup _you_ just broke, with your own two hands. Of course the only thing you can do is shuffle out of your chair after it, trying to collect all the pieces with one hand and failing miserably because glass is sharp and your shoulder’s suddenly gone from numb to aching fiercely; you think you might be panicking a little bit that's fucking silly, you're _absolutely fine_.

  


“Hey, it’s alright- here, stop that, you’re gonna cut up your hands,” Cronus says, but his voice sounds really far away for some reason and of course you can’t stop, the mess isn’t cleaned up yet. You always have to clean up your messes, you’re not allowed to make messes, it’s a rule, you have to follow the  _ rules _ \- 

  


He grabs your shoulder and you yelp out loud, jolting under his touch; you might have accidentally embedded a piece of glass in your knee, blood puddling on the floor beneath you and great, fuck, everything’s a mess, you’re a mess, how do you fix  _ you _ ? You can't clean up your own goddamn life, how are you supposed to slide your way into theirs without it all descending into unholy fucking chaos? They're going to toss you out on your ass, you're going to ruin  _everything_ , you just  _know it-_

  


“Eridan, come on, I’ll get a broom and clean it up in a minute. Get away from the glass, kiddo,” he says, his voice still sounding swimmy and far away, like someone yelling at you underwater; thankfully he moves his hands from your shoulders to your waist and he uses his grip to pick you up with ease, placing you three feet away from the disaster area on the floor. 

  


“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-“ you stutter, trying to spit out words as he brushes the glass from your hands into a trash bag, and he pats you on the head and looks at you strangely and says, “’S all right, it’s just a cup.”

  


_Just a cup,_ he says as he leads you to a bathroom and sits you down on the closed lid of the toilet, _it's just a cup Eridan._ He's super careful as he cleans out the cuts on your fingers and palms, face twisted in concentration, and having all his attention on you is nerve-wracking and you can’t stop your breath from coming out in short, choppy little wheezes and you’re  _ pathetic _ . 

  


“Anythin’ else?” he says, after plastering your hands with little bandaids, and you don’t really respond but you think he must have noticed the bloody hole in the knee of your jeans. 

  


“I’m gonna roll up your pant leg and fix this up, okay?” he says, slow like, which you appreciate because you might not be able to understand him if he speaks any faster because his voice is echoing in your ears in strange ways and your head feels oddly light, like you're not quite attached to the earth. You nod anyways, and he does exactly as he said he'd do; you have to shut your eyes and look away because there is blood _everywhere_. You know it’s just because of the water, that diluting it makes it look brighter and more voluminous, but it’s still shocking to see the bright red trail dripping from the glass in your knee, stark against your skin. 

  


He’s so fucking gentle it almost makes it hurt worse when he fishes the shard out of your knee; you’re cleaned and patched up in minutes, a bright purple bandage with fish all over it covering the injury. 

  


“There, nearly good as new,” he says, nodding. 

  


“I’m sorry,” you mumble, hiding your face in your scarf, clutching it with white-knuckled, bandaid-plastered fingers, “I can clean it up, I didn’t mean-“

  


He shushes you, a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth and fuck, have you made him angry? He’s not as big as Orpheus but he’s still capable of tossing you out a window or something, that you have no doubt. Or just tossing you out, period. Orpheus isn't home right now to tell him no, if Orpheus even  _would_ tell him no- 

  


“It’s just a cup, Eridan, it’s no problem, I swear.”

  


He helps you up and steers you to the living room, gently shoving you onto the couch and shaking his head when you try to move. 

  


“Nope, stay right there, I’ll be back in a sec. I’m just gonna go sweep everything up, and then we’ll just watch some TV, okay?”

  


You can’t really say no, can you? He told you to do something, so now you’re just gonna sit here, awkwardly, and wait for him to clean up your mess. He really didn’t seem to upset about the cup though; if… well, if that bruise came from where you think it did, then it would be completely fucking stupid for him _not_ to be upset, because... You didn't want to fuck this up for him. You didn't want to get him _hurt_ , dammit, not during your first day here- Shouldn’t he be more upset about breaking something? Breaking something was about the worst thing you could possibly do in your mother’s eyes; she was always furious when you did, whether it was an accident or not, and you’re pretty ashamed to admit there were some times when it was not. Sometimes rebellion comes in the form of baseball played with priceless antique vases, after all- despite the punishments that ensued.  


  


But he’s not mad or scared or upset or anything; in fact, you can hear him humming while he sweeps, something upbeat and peppy and decidedly not the sound a frantic teen should make. 

  


“All done, see? No problem,” he calls from the kitchen, and you hear clanking and the jingle of glass as, presumably, he throws the shards away, “Nothin’ to worry about, it was just a cup.” 

  


He plops on the couch beside you and smiles, fishing the remote from somewhere in the couch cushions and flipping to some nature documentary about the ocean, with a guy whose voice you are about 80% positive is soothing enough to put you to sleep. 

  


“C’mere,” he says, patting the couch next to him, and you, slowly, awkwardly, shuffle over until he deems you close enough [ _too fucking close, god-_ ], pulling you flush against his side and wrapping an arm around your shoulders. 

  


“It’s nothin’ to worry about,” he repeats, and this close, you can feel the way his entire body kind of rumbles with his voice; he smells like cigarettes and leather and he's not shaking in the slightest, not like you are, “You’re not in trouble, kay? It was just a cup.”

  
  


You don’t really know what to say; you just nod, turning your attention to the TV and absently watching little fish swim around coral reefs while some British dude narrates. Cronus has moved a hand to your hair, slowly combing out the tangles, but you don’t even think he’s noticed, as focused as he is on the show. Both he and Orpheus seem much more… contact-oriented than anyone you’ve had experience with. It is, in all honesty, really fucking strange to be the recipient of hugs and head pats and whatever is going on right now, you’re not sure. Cuddling, maybe? Whatever it is, it’s weird, even if it feels, like, really nice.  


  


Incredibly nice, especially when Cronus manages to get the worst of the knots out and just runs his fingers through your hair. It’s weird and nice and you have no freaking clue how to respond, not in the slightest. 

  


Everything here is weird. 

  


“You alright, kiddo?”

  


“Y-yeah, I’m fine, sorry I didn’t- I didn’t mean to freak out-“

  


You shake you head, forcing yourself to breath deep, calm down. 

  


“I just… Mom always got real mad when I broke stuff, an’ I didn’t want to get you in trouble or anythin’, an’ I guess I might’a gotten a little- nervous.” 

  


Panicked would likely be a more apt word for it, but. You shrug, and Cronus spares a hand to pull you close until you’re tucked right up against him in what is simultaneously the most awkward and most comfortable position you think you’ve ever been stuffed into. 

  


“It’s ok, and you aren’t gonna get me in trouble or nothin’. Dad don’t freak out about stuff as tiny as a cup gettin’ broke, I promise.”

  


He goes back to petting your hair; you give in to the large part of you shrieking about how nice this is and lean against his side, putting your head in prime scratching location. 

  


Cronus is older than you by three years if you remember correctly, putting him at sixteen to your thirteen, and making him, if not safe to be around, then at least less of a danger to you than Orpheus. You hope. Kids don’t _usually_ do bad shit to other kids, as you’ve come to learn; Cronus seems less likely to hurt you than most, despite the dark bruising around his face and the injuries on his knuckles you’d noticed when he was patching you up. 

  


“I just… I don’t know the _rules_ here,” you say, staring resolutely at the screen so you don’t have to look him in the eye, “An’- an’ I don’t wanna get you in trouble or anythin’ and  _ I _ don’t wanna get in trouble but I…”

  


“Rules?” Cronus replies, bemused, chewing on the tip of his free pointer finger, “Well, just the basics, I guess. No yellin’ indoors, no stayin’ out past 11 unless you call home first- a’course, your curfew might be earlier ‘cause you’re littler than me- get decent grades, go to bed right on school nights, um, what else is there?”

  


He stops to think, humming absently.

  


“I dunno, really- don’t got a lotta rules to be honest. The main ones are not breakin’ curfew without’a reason, always let Dad know where you’re goin’ before you leave, an’ don’t do anythin’ fuckin' stupid- stupid in this case bein' defined as "anythin' that could get you or someone else hurt". He’s pretty lax on everythin’ else."

  


That was helpful. 

  


He must have caught a glimpse of your less than ecstatic expression, because he shrugs and does an offhand sort of gesture with the fingers not currently buried in your hair. 

  


“He’s not real strict, an’ as long as you don’t go outta your way to like, purposefully do stupid things, there’s not really a lot you can do to get in trouble. Why, was your mom pretty big on rules?”

  


_Pretty big on rules_ would be sort of a hideous understatement, to be honest. Your mother was absolutely monstrous about rules, regulations, and schedules, and if you broke any of them or fell out of line, you could expect privileges to be revoked. Everything in your life from the time you woke up in the morning to the time you went to bed was strictly time managed, set in little coloured blocks on paper schedules to be followed without question or complaint on your part. She was almost like a drill sergeant in a way, except you think troops in boot camp have more freedom than you ever did. 

  


“Yes,” you say, shortly, biting your lip and flinching a bit when he pats your shoulder sympathetically. The stupid thing has been ricocheting back and forth between being completely numb and on fire, and if it weren’t for the fact that you could still move it, you would think it’s dislocated. 

  


“Tough, man. Hey, uh…"

  


He squirms a bit, staring blankly at the screen, now displaying cuttlefish derping around in a tank somewhere, before continuing, his free hand arching up to rub the back of his neck. 

  


“I don’t know if this is weird or anythin’, but, uh, we… you know we didn’t want to, like, leave you there, right?”

  


They-

  


What does he mean, they didn’t want to leave you? They did, didn’t they? And moreover, what does them leaving you have to do with anything? Of course they left you, you’re… well, you’re you. Everyone leaves you. 

  


“Oh,” you say. You can’t think of how else to respond. 

  


“Look, you were- well, you were around four, when your mom banned us from seein’ you anymore, I was around seven maybe, and I remember bein’ real upset. Dad was shook up bad for a long time after that, but there wasn’t much we could do about a restrainin’ order.”

  


“Mom told me you just stopped coming to see me,” you say, blankly, mind racing, “She- she said you were both busy, an’ then you never showed up again an’ I guess I just assumed…”

  


You assumed she was telling the truth. Why do you consistently do that, even though it’s been proven that she lies almost constantly? Why do you always just assume the best of her, why do you always believe that she wouldn’t lie to you about something so important, why do you… why do you always fall for this shit? You’re like a trained fucking dog, taught to see every word as undeniable truth and unbreakable law, but she lies, she’s lied… 

  


What else has she lied about? 

  


You heard  _ horror stories  _ about Orpheus when you were younger; every time you dared ask _‘Can I see Daddy’_ or _‘Where is Daddy’_ all you got in response were horrible tales of cruelty, about how he was unkind, how he yelled, how he favored Cronus over you, how he… how he hit her. She told you he  _ hit _ her, and now you’re wondering if _that_ was a lie, too. 

  


“No, nuh-uh, we came to see you like twice a week till you were four and a half, maybe? Then all the sudden we get a letter in the mail tellin’ us that we can’t get within’ like five hundred feet’a you and your mom, and we sent you letters an’ stuff but now I’m guessin’ you never got ’em.”

  


“No. No I didn’t.”

  


They sent you letters? She took your _letters_. Why? What possible reason could she have had for keeping you away from them? It’s not like she cared enough about you to actually raise you; you spend most of your time in the care of nannies and tutors, only seeing her once or twice a day, if that. Being in the car with her for the twenty minute ride over here was the longest time you’d spent with her in over a month. 

  


Unless… unless she was trying to protect you? Unless he really did hit her, and she didn’t want you around him? Unless she told the truth and Orpheus really is as dangerous as she says? Or were those all lies as well, was everything a lie, but _why_?  You don’t like not understanding, you don’t like not knowing, it makes you itch on the inside in a way you can’t stand, and everything here is like a shattered puzzle with all the pieces spray painted black.  


  


“Oh.”

  


The conversation kind of devolves into an awkward silence, and you stare at the TV, trying to piece things together in your head.

  
Everything is like a fucking puzzle with the pieces spray painted black, and you’re not even sure you have all of them. 

  



End file.
